i am good at being a total bastard.
at no point should anybody be a total bastard to my girlfriend.
i'd fight me, if i was somebody else.
that is my haiku, except i'm too fuckuled to even think about syllables.
there are layers to death, & i'm somewhere less dead than cthulhu but more dead than tom sawyer. fuck wild turkey! too much to drink, too much stress; then i have a bad dream about something swimming beneath me at some lagoon, something that sheds rotten human body parts that float to the surface. some teeth, a meaty crust, an eye frament, whatever. went ahead & bought jenny candy cigarettes & tulips on my way home; television conventions have led me to understand that flowers & candy are appropriate in situations like these. see, ages ago, when i was trying to win jenny for my own? win her a second time? i decided the best tactic i could undertake was to be the best. just constantly wonderful. console her on her heartbreak with guy b, &c. that is supposed to keep happening! i treated her badly enough the first time we dated. i mean, i've treated girls badly, as a rule. see, but that was the riddle, the equation. or more to the point, she is the answer to it; she is the girl i am not supposed to be cruel to for no reason. you know villians & their strange affections. so i've got to take a deep breath & cut that shit out. i should be bringing home candy & flowers for her without provocation! but sometimes i get caught up on my pride. well, it ain't as bad as big brother taus-i-melek's, so i swallowed it. turned by stomach bitter like the scroll the angel gave john of patmos, but sometimes you just have to take your medicine.